A FIERCE and bitter storm’s abroad, it is a bleak midwinter day, and
slowly o’er the frozen sod the postman’s pony picks its way. The postman
and his horse are cold, but fearlessly they face the gale; though storms
increase a hundredfold, the farmer folk must have their mail. The hours
drag on, the lonely road grows rougher with each mile that’s past, the
weary pony feels its load, and staggers in the shrieking blast. But man
and horse strive on the more; they never learned such word as fail;
though tempests beat and torrents pour, the farmer folk must have their
mail. At night the pony, to its shed, drags on its cold, exhausted
frame; and after supper, to his bed, the wearied postman does the same.
Tomorrow brings the same old round, the same exhausting, thankless
grind—the journey over frozen ground, the facing of the bitter wind. The
postman does a hero’s stunt to earn his scanty roll of kale; of all the
storms he bears the brunt—the farmer folk must have their mail!
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